Floyd Oster, presently under indictment, was out on bail. His defense attorney, Edward Colson, was general counsel for Amalgamated Mechanics. Ordinarily, a man like Oster would never be able to afford the ticket for such high-priced legal talent. I could make a fair assumption that the union, under pressure from Ira Madden, was paying Colson’s fee.
Coincidentally, Colson’s office was three floors above my own, here at Rockefeller Center. I dialed his number and was told that he was at an arbitration hearing and would not be available until tomorrow. I saw no impropriety in bypassing Colson for a direct approach to Oster himself. Undoubtedly, Oster had instructions to keep his mouth zippered, but I was not interested in any dialogue with the man. I just wanted him to listen; admittedly, a quixotic approach.
The building was a converted brownstone, indistinguishable from its neighbors on Manhattan’s west side. When I rang the bell, he called out guardedly for identification. Then he opened the door as far as the protective chain would allow. Floyd Oster, a carp-faced and sulfurous little brute, with a smile like a curved scimitar and just as lethal, was Ira Madden’s right hand. He remembered me without pleasure from our last meeting.
“May I come in, Floyd?”
“No.”
“I have something I want to say.”
“Say it to my lawyer.”
“If Ed Colson knew what you’re up to, he’d walk away and you’d need a new attorney.”
“Ed Colson works for the union. He does what he’s told.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Say your piece and bug off.”
“You never learn, do you, Floyd? Right now you’re in a sling with the U.S. Attorney on a bribery charge. But that isn’t enough. You’re chasing after more grief, adding a count of extortion to your indictment. I’m telling you to stay away from Laura Bolt. One more threatening telephone call, another attempt at intimidation like that automobile caper this morning, and I promise you I’ll blow the lid.”
“You’re talking Greek.”
“That’s a bad hand, Floyd. Throw it in. You know exactly what I mean. And I don’t think you’re acting on instructions from Ira Madden. With what he has stashed away, fifty grand would be peanuts. So this is your own private little operation. I’m telling you to drop it. Get off the lady’s back. Because if anything happens to Mrs. Bolt, the roof will fall in.”
It bothered him a lot. He called me a name and slammed the door.
So maybe he needed money. Maybe his common sense was canceled by greed. Whatever, the judge’s widow was back on the phone late the next morning, agitated and close to panic. She’d had another call. The banks would be closed over the weekend, so Monday was her deadline, the voice asking her how she would like to attend my funeral just before her own, and reminding her of the automobile that almost sent her flying through the air like a rag doll.
I calmed her, broke the connection, marched out to the elevator, and rode it up three floors to Edward Colson’s office. Oster’s lawyer would have to read the riot act to him. Colson’s secretary told me that he would be leaving for lunch in a few minutes, and without an appointment...
“Just tell him that Scott Jordan is here.”
She looked doubtful, but spoke into her phone. In ten seconds Colson emerged, a tall, shambling pipe-smoking man with blunt features and a shock of brown hair. Edward Colson was a courtroom orator of the old school, somewhat flamboyant but tough, shrewd and knowledgeable.
“Counselor,” he said, voice resonant, both hands employed for the shake, “you promised to call me for lunch one day. Must have been a year ago at least. Come in.” He took my elbow and steered me into his private office.
He had company — a spinster-type, thin and flat, early thirties, with mousy hair and soft spaniel eyes that seemed to spend most of their time worshiping at Colson’s shrine.
He introduced us. “My fiancée, Lily Madden.”
“Ira Madden’s daughter?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Do you know my father?”
“Not personally.”
“Lily and I became engaged last week,” Colson said.
She raised a hand, proudly displaying a blue-white rock about five carats in size. It caught the midday light and sparkled. No financial burden on Colson, I thought. Easily affordable, considering the annual retainer he got from Amalgamated Mechanics. Still, Lily Madden was so obviously enamored she probably would have been satisfied with a zircon from the five-and-dime.
From time to time I had seen Colson squiring a few lovelies around town. He was a connoisseur. So why settle for someone as plain as Lily Madden? Insurance, probably; Colson relished the good life, and as Ira Madden’s son-in-law, his position as general counsel for the union would be secure.
“Shot of brandy?” he asked.
“No, thanks. Could I talk to you in private for a moment?”
“We have a table reserved for lunch. How long do you need?”
“Ten minutes should do it.”
“Lily, please. There are magazines in the reception room.”
She smiled at him, eyes fingering on his face, and stepped, out.
“Marvelous girl,” he said.
“All these years a bachelor, Ed. And now you’re taking the plunge?”
“It’s time, isn’t it? I’m not getting any younger.” He settled behind his desk and folded his hands. “What’s on your mind, Counselor?”
“One of your clients. Floyd Oster.”
He made a face. “I take the good with the bad. As a union official, I have to go to bat for him.”
“Naturally. But you must be soaking the man unmercifully.”
“How do you mean?”
“Oster got his neck way out, trying to raise some heavy sugar.”
“Impossible. This defense isn’t costing Oster dime-one. Amalgamated Mechanics is picking up the tab.”
“Then he’s involved in a little private enterprise, highly illegal. Or perhaps your future father-in-law is prodding him.”
Colson’s head snapped up. His smile vanished. “What are you driving at, Jordan? Let’s have it.”
I recited for him, chapter and verse. “You’re Oster’s lawyer. You know the background. That fifty grand he gave Judge Bolt—”
“Correction. One adverb short. Allegedly gave...”
“Do you doubt his guilt?”
“He carries a presumption of innocence.”
“An eloquent phrase, Edward. But for Oster, a mere technicality. If Judge Bolt were still alive and testifying, the government would have no problem clapping your boy into the slammer for a couple of years.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Nevertheless, somebody handed his Honor fifty grand cash money while Ira Madden was on trial for embezzling union funds. It was not a charitable donation. And who else needed favors from the judge, preferential treatment, a biased charge to the jury? Whatever, Floyd Oster is now trying to get his hands on it.”
“What makes you so sure it’s Oster?”
“Come off it, Ed. Everything points to the man. And the U.S. Attorney would dearly love to nail him. None of this is likely to help Ira Madden when he goes back into court.”
Colson shook his head. “I can’t believe Oster would be that stupid.”
“If he had anything but a vacuum north of his sinuses he wouldn’t be in all this trouble.”
“You think he’ll listen to me?”
“You’re his lawyer.”
“Where’s my leverage?”
“He knows the value of your services. You can threaten to dump him.”
“No, sir. That’s exactly what I cannot do. But I’ll bend the rules a little. I’ll talk to him. Just remember, these union people sometimes ask my advice. They don’t always take it.”
“Maybe they’ve learned a lesson. Both Madden and Oster are facing a serious prosecution.”